And In My Pain, I Saw
by pyrebi
Summary: I, Fenrir, am the father of the new wolf. My affliction will spread like the plague, and those who once spat upon me shall hear my name and tremble.
1. A Vision

Ah, a Fenrir-fic! I hope you enjoy, this fic's been thudding around in my head for months.

I took some artistic liberty with where he was bitten, so forgive me if I got it wrong. I just kinda made up everything about his past. If you know any certain facts, let me know! I'd love to be able to correct this. crosses fingers for lots of info in Deathly Hallows

--

I was fifteen when it happened. Old enough to know better, young enough to not care. I chose to go into the forest that night, and I suffered the consequences. I had been searching for a rare herb that sprouts by full moonlight when I heard the feet pounding. The sounds of snarling filled my ears, and then I knew suffering.

I was bitten across my face by a werewolf all those years ago. The gashes caused by those long fangs left scars that never truly faded. They served as an outward reminder of the disease I carried deep within my blood. I, Fenrir Greyback, became a werewolf that cold and god-forsaken night.

I was in Slytherin. I was a fifth year. I made good marks, my professors liked me well enough, and it looked as though I might expect a job in the Ministry upon graduation. All of these things were torn away from me that night. When I left the hospital and returned to the school days later, the jagged tears across my face still raw and oozing with pus, I was quickly escorted to the Headmaster's office.

I will never forget the look of apprehension, of disgust, of hatred on old Dippet's face. He told me bluntly that I was dangerous; I had no place at Hogwarts. He took my wand and snapped it in two. He wouldn't even let me have the pieces. I was to be an outcast, a traitor to wizardkind. I was marked with a sign of evil.

As I walked across Hogwarts grounds for the last time as a student, I realized that I hated that old man more than anything in the world. Professor Dumbledore accompanied me to the gates, and as I turned back, I saw an expression of pity on his face. In that moment, I hated him too.

I was underage, alone, and uneducated when they thrust me out into the unforgiving world. My own family refused to let me into our house. They too were afraid of me now. I became a monster once a month; a monster that wanted nothing more than to tear into the flesh of other human beings. I was frightened. Frightened of myself, frightened of the beast, frightened of what that beast could do.

Everywhere I went, people knew me. Wizards shied away, witches gasped and huddled together. In those days, there was no known potion for those with my ailment; there was no way to control the wolf in me. I was marked, both on my person and in the Ministry's records, as a dangerous magical creature.

At first I tried to lock myself away during the full moon, to keep the wolf separate from its prey. I found that in its madness it rent its own flesh, inflicting further scars upon the body that would once again be mine come morning. Then, one night, it broke free.

Unless you have ever been a wolf, you cannot imagine the sensations. Its paws carried it far over the silent, moon-lit turf; its eyes caught every motion, every glimmer; its nose twitched at smells I had never before known existed. Its howling felt as though I was crying to the world of all of my glory and power. But always, always, was present the burning _need_ to bite and rip. That was the thing that separated us: _I_ was Fenrir, _It_ was the wolf.

When it first saw her, she was hurrying down the path, shawl drawn tight around her. An old muggle woman, no doubt unaware of her danger. It loped beside her under the cover of the woods; I was a helpless spectator in a body that was no longer mine. Then it attacked. She had time to turn and gasp before it sunk its fangs into her shoulder. It rent the woman's shawl and shirtsleeve, breaking the skin and causing the hot blood to surge forth. Then I lost all knowledge, and it gained full control.

In the morning, I found myself lying naked in some underbrush. I could feel the heavy metallic taste of spoiling blood in my mouth, and my stomach churned. I threw up six times.

But I wanted more.

After that, I could not find a moment's rest. The Ministry, aware of what I had done, followed me everywhere. Mine was a cursed life. I suffered six months this way, each full moon a writhing agony of the senses. I wanted death. I wanted life. And above all, I wanted blood.

Then, nearly a year after this pestilence was brought down upon me, I had a vision. I was not free; no, far from it. I was a dog, a slave to my affliction. Yet as I suffered one full-moon night, a golden dream came upon me all at once, like new life.

I writhed naked on the floor of my latest hiding spot, and in my pain I saw the answer: accept the wolf. Stop fighting the wolf. Let the distinction between _I_ and _It_ cease to exist, and then spread it. Lycanthropy could become a pandemic, or, better yet, a norm. Why let the wizards control my destiny? They could not cure me, but I could convert them, willing or not. I could build my own army of werewolves, a terrible force who would spread my plague like a wildfire over England, over Europe, over the world. I would be the father to a new breed of werewolf, a cunning breed.

When the transformation was complete that night, the bright vision faded, but the afterimage remained. The wolf that leapt out in search of prey was not _It_ but _I_, Fenrir, Father of the New Wolf. A werewolf who does not bite randomly, but thinks and plans out his attacks with the deliberation of a man. I would become the most powerful and feared creature to ever be excommunicated from the wizarding society.

--

So now you have heard my story. How I was driven to what I am now. How I came to accept—no, to merge with—the beast within me.

And now, I have but one question for you: will you join me of your own will and become one of the most powerful creatures on earth, or will I have to hunt you down on the next full moon? Because I am Fenrir Greyback, the Father of the New Wolf, and one way or another, my fangs will be painted with your blood.


	2. My Child

Wow, thanks for all the support, guys! I'm really touched that you like this story. I shall certainly continue it. (grins)

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Lycanthropy takes a toll on the human body, make no mistake about that. For the first time in my life I was forced to live on scraps, throwaways, the refuse of those who shunned me so completely. During those first few years, I could often be found rummaging through garbage cans like a pariah dog, searching for any edible morsel that some thoughtless person had cast away. I was not too proud to eat the waste of others in order to survive.

Do not misunderstand me: I hated every moment of it. But like the survivor who will eat his comrades to live, the need for food overcame my repulsion. My dream was there, lingering before me, and I would not let starvation kill it or me. There would be time later to be proud. So I lived on the dregs of society, always waiting.

After my bright vision captured my mind and imagination, I determined that the first thing to do would be to find someone strong, someone as capable as myself in turning the masses to werewolves. I decided that such would be the first step in my glorious plan.

I could not have been more mistaken.

--

Something symbolic had made me want to choose a Ministry employee. I wanted to strike at them first--the invisible hand that crushed me down and the all-seeing eye that I could never escape. But I knew I could never get close enough, for I would have to venture into the city to find one, and my skills were not ready for that. I needed a sheltered place into which I could retreat after an attack. I understood that the time was not yet ripe for that vengeance.

In the days leading up to the next full moon, I scoped out a prospective convert. He was strong, as I had wished. Since he was a Muggle, I knew he would be easy enough to convert to my purposes. He probably didn't even believe in werewolves. I followed him home one night and marked the place carefully in my mind. Its position was perfect: the neighborhood was bordered by forest into which I could easily escape and remain hidden until the sun had risen.

The night of the full moon found me waiting outside of that house, shuddering from the exertion of keeping my lupine self controlled enough to wait for the target my human mind had selected. It was fortunate (at the time) that no other human passed that way, for I would have instantly attacked them. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, my marked man came back. I leapt, remembering the old woman and the ease with which I had sunk my fangs into her.

I did not expect the heavy blow that cracked against my head, causing me to yelp in shock and pain. I crashed back down to the ground and barely managed to roll away before the man was once again aiming his heavy briefcase at my skull. I scrambled back to my feet, snarling. He swung again, and I leapt away.

Though I managed to avoid his other blows, I was disconcerted. In every plan I had formulated, every possible outcome I had imagined, I had merely pounced upon my victims and torn into their yielding flesh. I had believed in my own power, my own superiority. Now, this man, who I had specially chosen to be my first child, was beating me at my own game. I could not get within wounding distance of him, yet he had no problem inflicting hurts upon me.

I believe that my problem was that I had not yet learned the best way to use my werewolf body. Three years later, if I had wanted to attack this same man, I would've waited for him to walk past me, then bitten him from behind, where he could not see me and defend himself. This was simply my first attempt, though, so I could not have been expected to succeed against a fully-grown man, even if he was a Muggle. Nevertheless, pride would not let me give up.

My teeth closed savagely upon the leather briefcase, and I twisted my head sharply, trying to drag the item away from the man. My would-be victim, however, had called loudly towards the house when I first appeared, and now a woman appeared suddenly at the door, brandishing a broom and a kitchen knife.

The first blow from the broom-handle caused me to whirl upon the wife. Here was easier prey, I was sure. But I had not yet had the opportunity to get close enough to bite when, with a shout, the man's briefcase punched me hard in the ribs. My paws stumbled, and I felt a white-hot pain in my shoulder as the woman screamed and drove the kitchen knife into me.

Beaten, bruised, and bleeding, I chose to make my escape before more grievous hurts could be inflicted upon me. All of my illusions of grandeur fleeing, I ran, tail between my legs. I collapsed into some shrubs half a street away, pausing to lick my wound. Thought processes were simpler in lupine form, and I could not reason how I could have been defeated so soundly.

Looking back now, I think that those few moments in the bushes were a crossroads. Had I chosen to slink away, my vision would have died. I would have given up on that path forever. I would have lived the life of every other werewolf before me: surviving on the fringe of society, taking Muggle odd jobs to eat, never accepted anywhere.

But at that moment a light blinded me. A symbol, I thought; for the burning light reminded me so clearly of my first moment of comprehension. I knew I had to continue. I realized where the light had come from: an automobile's headlights had glided over my hiding place for an instant, and I became alert. I did not think about what I was doing; I merely followed instinct. The car stopped outside of the house of the man who had so brutally beaten me just moments before. A rear door opened. A child stepped out.

A child. So young, so innocent, so weak.

Instantly I dashed back to the house. Before anyone could react, before the child could scream, I had my teeth on her forearm. I felt the warmth of her blood in my mouth, and a sense of overwhelming pride coursed through me. _This_ was right. _This _was what I was made to do.

I dragged her with me a few feet before the father screamed in horror and rage. He was charging at me with the knife. I dropped the girl and lunged. The blood in my mouth had given me new ferocity. I felt raw power surge in my yet-untrained muscles. I was not afraid of this bellowing Muggle.

My teeth closed on his throat, and before I could stop myself I had torn his windpipe open. He fell. The man I had so wanted to convert was no use to me now; in a very short time he would be dead. I returned to the girl. She was unconscious. I continued to drag her away.

I heard frenzied shouts of panic from the house, but by then I had reached the woods. My strategy of backing away while clutching the child in my teeth was not gaining me enough ground, so I dropped her arm and picked her up where her neck and shoulder met, then bounded away, to be swallowed by the protecting trees.

--

When I awoke the next morning, I found in my grasp a young girl, no more than seven years old. She was sleeping, but the streaks that were mixed with the clotted blood on her face were evidence to the fact that she had been crying.

I was in shock.

So this was my first child? A weak little girl? I could not care for someone so young. My vision involved infecting the great men of the wizarding world, not little girls. For a moment I considered taking her back.

Then I realized the greatest part of my dream, and the part of which I am most proud today: the children are the key to success. Raise them wild. Breed in them a sense of hatred from their youth, and they will be loyal forever. Never let them go back to their home, and when the time comes, they might turn on their parents just like my parents turned on me.

This little girl was a promise. She was the promise of a new world: a world of terror and panic where the name _Fenrir Greyback_ would not be spoken in contempt alone, but in awe, in fear. Where I could be recognized as a leader of a new army.

So, at seventeen, barely of age, I hugged a tiny girl to me, swearing that she would light the path to my vision's fruition. I loved her then as a father loves his first daughter. My key. My promise. My light.

My child.


End file.
